Hitman: Letters
by Lexx Fox
Summary: Agent 47 is standing on his very own lifeline. It seems as if a chain of letters is the cause of his death, and the remedy to save his life. No more coleagues, no more Mr. 47. Read, and you will find a rutheless 47 that you never knew before. is updated
1. I

**RATING NOTE: THIS NOVEL IS RATED MA, FOR PERSUASIVE LANGUAGE, STRONG VIOLENCE, AND SOME DEPICTIONS OF SEXUALITY.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'HITMAN: LETTERS' IS A STORY BASED ON THE BEST SELLING VIDEO GAME: HITMAN. ONLY MINOR, AND NONRELATED MAJOR CHARACTERS ARE OF MY IDEAS/CREATION.**

**THANK YOU,**

Aaron Morrison (Lexx Fox)

Hitman: Letters

**I**

Rome had become France. A horrid scene of fancy jewelry and unsuspecting consumers of the wealth; amusing to the foreign eye. I was prone, clutching my .338 Lapua Magnum, merely seventy yards away from Contrassegno, my target. I watched him, as if with pity. He sat laughing with his women, overdosing on wine and cake, whilst yelling for the waiter in a drunken manner. It was a week of never ending festival, and he had his fair share of the night life. Why did he have a hit placed upon him? Why was he closely being watched by myself, the predator, while he unknowingly took in his last breaths? Monsieur Timothy Haven, of Paris, wasn't the greatest favor of Contrassegno D'florva in his younger years. Haven was D'florva's student of medicine for five years, and he was eventually refused of further teachings. Along with Haven's apprenticeship, came an insurance from the wealthy D'florva of money and health problems, just as long as he studied from him to make better publicity for his name. Haven was eventually refused of further teachings, and forced into bankruptcy for 3 years. He continually contemplated suicide, until he could no longer take the misery. He slit his wrists on the fourth floor of the asylum he had been placed in only months before. So, still doesn't explain the reason why he was set up for death in only a few moments. What D'florva didn't know, nor cared to know, was that his former apprentice had a son shortly before he died who became big in the business of law, and became very wealthy. Since Haven died in '73, his son was now thirty-four years old, and undoubtedly prepared for his father's vengeance. The fact that he was a lawyer who was indeed hated by many, troubled his chances of killing D'florva without someone seeing and contacting the authorities. So, he took advantage of his mass wealth and placed a hit on D'florva for sixty-thousand dollars, cash. So, there I was, still prone, feeling my heart beating up to my skull, my blood ice cold, and one shot one the line. This always happened when I was completing a long-range kill. Every time, no matter if I was ten, or one hundred yards away, this would sink in. What if I miss? What if my scope had been tampered with in some way? These things, of course, were always possibilities, but they never took effect. As well as nervousness sinking in, some sort of blood-thirsty feeling would sink in. Sometimes, I would want to pull the trigger too soon, or possibly even throw the gun down, run as fast I as could at the man I was targeting and kill him with my bare hands. But, over the years, I became more aware of how important it was to sustain my cover, and I calmed down. Nervousness. That was the only factor anymore.

Previous the present night, I acquired the job. "Nice of you to accept my offer, Mr. 47, is it? Don't these agencies give you people a name any more?" He laughed. "But, really, we must make haste, for I have a later appointment which I cannot show up tardy upon." The location of the job acquirement was behind a small restaurant which had been closed down for some time.

"Your name, may I?"

"Mine? Of course, how rude of me. My name is Alexander Haven, I suppose that your agency didn't tell you."

"No, they didn't. Haven, I would like to make small talk, for I too, hate to be late for my appointments. Do you have the money, the name?"

"Yes, but how do I know that you can guarantee that this asshole gets killed?"

"The money is all I need to guarantee it. You give me that, and the hit is as good as done."

"Well, then it seems we have an agreement then, Mr. 47. Sixty grand for the murder of Contrassegno D'florva. Just out of curiosity, what instrument will you be using to kill the wretched animal?"

"I'm going to do the job with a standard sniper rifle the agency provided me with. A Fortsnaut." Haven let out a laugh, along with the two men who were in charge of his protection.

"A fucking Fortsnaut? Does not your agency find better ways to supply their people? If I may, sir, I have something that just may work a hell of a lot better than a Fortsnaut." He half-smiled as he reached into a bag that was handed to him, as if on queue, by one of his henchmen. He pulled out a long rifle that was about three and a half inches longer than a standard Fortsnaut.

"Do you like what you see, monsieur? A very nice piece of equipment, I think. Would you like to know how we managed to get our hands on this piece of art? We smuggled it!" He seemed rather enthusiastic about the idea of smuggling weapons, but nonetheless, he maintained most of his composure. "This is a .338 Lapua Magnum, one of the strongest sniper rifles of our modern time. It can penetrate someone's skull from seven hundred yards away, and can leave an armored vehicle burning from five to seven shots. I offer this gun to you, only for the joy of killing D'florva."

"I'm not one to accept weapons from the man who gave me the hit in the first place, much less a smuggler. If you want to improve the way the agency provides me with my tools, I suggest you discuss that with them. Anything else that needs to be said?" Haven eyed me almost disappointedly, but nonetheless bade me adieu and said to call his cell phone number the minute that D'florva was dead, and I was positively safe. I got into the car, also provided by the agency, and set off as fast as I possibly could to reach a late appointment. Rome was death in the night. It was freeing out, and the street proved it, for there was not a single living soul outside. I frisk searched myself to check if I had absolutely everything I needed for the kill. I had my Silenced Silverballer under my coat, fiber wire, my syringes for sedative and deadly encounters, but.. No. I braked hard and turned left, to try to turn around quickly, and my car almost flipped over. The Fortsnaut. I should have kept it in the trunk of the car, but I showed it to Haven like he hadn't seen one before, and left it sitting on the wall of the abandoned restaurant. I couldn't go back, no matter how badly I wanted to, I had no time. I would have to obtain a sniper rifle elsewhere. But where? Later. That could wait, but I needed to be there now. I stepped on the gas once more and sped down the Roman streets like a bat out of hell, my Silverballer silently waiting under my coat. I was already three minutes late, and ten minutes more, he would be long gone. I saw it coming up. On the outskirts of Rome, a small office building for technical powering of the city was fully lit up on the second floor. My target was still there. I sped into the parking lot, and parked nearest the entrance. I quickly walked up to the door, and pulled out the card which I was now named by: Mark Sean. I was posing as an American industrialist still in training and coming to Rome to seek wisdom of an older man of the job. The man who paid me to do this particular job was none other than Philippe Jean Luc, one of Alexander Haven's henchmen. Unsurprisingly, he wanted to keep the hit secret to everyone including Haven himself. I had no idea why he wanted Matthew Vorpeik dead, but the reason didn't matter to me. The payment was over double Haven's. $137,462.00 to be exact, and I wasn't going to let that payment merely slip away. I walked through the door, and told the security guard who I was and showed him my fake I.D. It looked as if he only half-way heard what I told him, but he said that Vorpeik and the other five people I was meeting with were on the second floor, as expected. I didn't hesitate to take the elevator, and I quickly made it to the second floor, and into the room Vorpeik was in. They were at a circular table, and the kindly asked me to take a seat. I obeyed, and they began their long conversation to me about the technical difficulties and problems that Rome has occurred over the past few years, and what problems the American plant I worked at had been having. I told them basically the same thing they told me, but I tried as well as possible to keep from saying a lot of words. It was almost time to do what I had been sent here to do. In five minutes, Vorpeik's colleagues would leave because of the end of the meeting, whilst I insisted that I have a few more words with Vorpeik. Then, I will quickly pull out my Silverballer and make a mess of his face with bullets. I would then walk slowly out of the room, finish Vorpeik's colleagues, take the emergency stairs, and slip out of the back of the building. All so easy.

As planned, Vorpeik's colleagues complained about the hour, but I said otherwise. They agreed to give me a few more minutes with Vorpeik before setting off, and as soon as they were out of hearing distance, I spoke. I was once again 47.

"Vorpeik, is it? Roman industrialist, brother, husband, human trafficker?" I was calmly flipping through his files which I hadn't had time to do before. "Humor me, Vorpeik. Just tell me, how many children did you put through prostitution?" The man was a broken statue, pale and dreading what he and I both knew would come.

"Who are you, why are you here?"  
"Vorpeik, you know damn well what I'm here for, but you can call me 47."

"Please, I'll give you anything you want. Anything at all, just don't kill me, please I beg of you."

"They all beg Sebastian, but there's money on you, which means that you have only a few words left to say. Vorpeik opened his mouth to say something, but I was done wasting time. I wasted three bullets to his chest, and one to his head, and I then slipped out the door and took care of his colleagues. The current job was done. I made my way towards the emergency staircase.


	2. II

Hitman: Letters

**II**

A week prior, a café hospitalized our meeting. Vorpeik's deathbed was being arranged. "I suppose I have the right place. Jean Luc, is it?"

"Correct you are, though I haven't received your title."

"47. I choose to keep my name anonymous." The words came out of my mouth as easily as they always did. What a perfect lie.

"Funny, these 'agencies'. Such perfect ways to conceal an identity: Numbers."

"Seems as if you've dealt with our kind before, then?"

"Precisely. You're not the first, hit man I've seen. And in fact, I once contemplated a job, or maybe even a profession such as yours."

"I see."

"If I may, I would like to use the spare time that I do indeed have to tell you a bit about the season that is prospering here in Rome."

"I have nowhere else to be."

"Well, This is known as 'Paris, Italy week' to most of the locals, but it doesn't actually have a name. This time of year, every year, Merchants from France come to Rome because around this time, prices are down in Paris."

"I suppose tastes go by seasons." He showed a look of obvious relaxation.

"You could say that. Well, either because of missing a purchase, or because of vacationing, French people still come here, to Rome, around this time. So, as you could probably imagine, it's hard to tell if you're in Paris, or in Rome. But the reason I am here," he handed me the files, "is obviously because of vengeance." I made to open the files, but he motioned me to do it elsewhere due to a curious bartender overlooking my shoulder.

"I don't know if you are aware of this, but I'm to acquire a job from your boss, Alexander Haven, the night of your hit. Have you any idea what it is?"

"If I knew monsieur, I couldn't tell you. And, even if I could tell you, we're in a café." He was undoubtedly uneasy about his work, and Haven's, but I pressed him.

"Come now, have you no knowledge? There are about fifty to sixty people in this small café, who care nothing about what you or I have to say, and as well, most of them are drunk or stoned." He didn't change expression.

"Oh, but haven't you knowledge, 47, half of these people that are drunken and stoned are cops, and we're in Italy. People will turn you in just for another round of shots."

"Well then, let's take our business elsewhere." He agreed, and we both went outside and walked into a nearby alley, neither of us paying any attention to the latter's movements, but both obviously tense.

"I know you want more preparation time, 47, but I don't know the goddamn name."

"Oh, but I think you do. You're his right-hand man, his highest amigo, he wouldn't let anything slip by you, not even a hit. I want the fucking name."

"Monsieur, you would have to chop my fucking balls off before I would give you any damn name!"

"I have a knife, and I've done worse." He seemed taken aback by these words, but he kept his same facial expression of intensity and anger.

"If I give you the name, you do something else for me."

"What would that be?"

"A very simple task. Well, you would think so. If I give you the name, all you have to do, is deliver a letter."

"A letter," I repeated. Right then, it all seemed so easy. So painstakingly easy, that I wanted to completely refuse the offer, shoot him in the face and walk away. It was all for a name that I would receive nonetheless at a later time. All for a name that already had a price that I didn't have to pay. A fucking name that I already had a Fortsnaut in the back of my trunk for, and various other items. I honestly wanted to turn it down, but really, I needed that preparation time.

"It seems that you're bullshitting me. You want me to deliver a letter, in return for something that you would lay your life down upon?" He looked at me a general anger now, but said in a regular tone, "Yes. Have you prepared at all for my boss's hit?"

The only thing I know about the kill, is that it involves a fat man, and a sniper rifle. Locations, names, reasons, times, and dates, I will have originally received two hours prior to the meeting with Haven, from the agency, via my hotel mailbox."

"Well, since I found a simple way of getting around Haven's orders, you'll be getting all the information now." He took out a small, torn envelops out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. I took it, thinking that Haven wanted him to have a backup copy, just in case.

"Well, now that we have that settled, Luc, where, when, and to whom shall I deliver this letter?"

"You'll receive that information some time next week. I am sorry Mr. 47, but I must say abandon our meeting. I will see you again at another time. I bade him a short farewell, and got into my car.

The emergency exit briskly opened as if it were automatic, and I stored my half-empty Silverballer into my coat pocket. The weather was as I had left it, only an hour before, and I was reminded of the meeting I had had a week before. The letter Jean Luc had given me was safely in the glove compartment of my jaguar. When I opened the door to the jaguar, I peered inside of the building to find the blankly staring corpse of the security guard, still at his desk, his coffee all over the floor. As suspected, Jean Luc had taken care of the guard while I was in the meeting. One less bullet out of my Silverballer. I turned the ignition on, and the heater as well. The police wouldn't arrive, or even know of the killings until tomorrow, when I would have a separate job to handle. I wasn't one to be curious, but a little reading of the letter wouldn't bother me in the morning. I retrieved the letter out of the glove compartment, and tore off the symbol of a raven and the number 6 which enclosed it. The letter read:

Dear Mr. 47,the curious man who is possibly saving his life by eavesdropping on this letter, It's nice to know that you've been working with the people who are the sole rivals of your agency. As well, it's nice to have a man such as Philippe Jean Luc to do the task of giving you this letter in the first place. How idiotic of you, a man of no identity, to walk into our little trap. Even I, myself never would have thought that it could have worked, but obviously, it did. Now that I have exposed your dumbass, let me tell you the importance of this letter. Last year, you faked your death in order to kill a man who was very dear to me, and my fellow men. You literally rose from the grave and massacred armed men, as well as innocent civilians. Now since you like playing little fucking games with my friends, I've decided that I will play a little game with you. You currently are to kill Contrassegno D'florva, but I have three more hits for you as well, which if you do not complete, you will receive a bullet for. If you want to know those names, you have to go to the enclosed address, and kill everyone inside, no exceptions. Once you do this, you will find a letter enclosed inside of a jewelry box, with my emblem, which will continue to lead you on this trail. If you aren't reading this, you're already dead. If you are, you will be dead, nonetheless. Don't plan on saving your life, I guess I have given you false hope. Your "father" would be proud.

My sincerity,


	3. III

Hitman: Letters

**III**

Rome wasn't merely a home of beautiful sights. Of course, anyone could say this, but to actually understand the statement was a world of difference. As well as the sights, came along with it a soundtrack. The national Italian opera was undoubtedly a rival of the French opera, so to increase its standards, it practiced late. And what more of an audience to help with the opera's progressions, than Alexander Haven. While seated at on balcony that overlooked the performance of the theatre, Haven stared intently the performers as if they were telling him something in a whisper that only he could understand. I couldn't help but wander into the back of my head to try to find out how this night was familiar.

"Mr. 47, what a surprise to find you here."

"The same to you. I would think that, for a Frenchman as yourself, the Italian opera would be hated. Am I wrong?"

"No, in fact, you're absolutely right. This.. Horrible excuse for an opera isn't the reason why I am here. Actually, I'm awaiting someone. What brings you here Mr. 47?"

"I received a letter with this address. Very charming letter, really. Would you like to read it, Alexander?" I handed him the letter in a relaxed manner, as if I had absolutely no idea of what I had read only minutes ago. He took the torn piece of paper out of the envelope and began reading its contents looking rather shocked, either because of what it told me to do, or because I was so unaffected by it. He read it once or twice, gasped a few times, and then said to me, most definitely shocked, "Looks like you have yourself in a hole full of shit, eh?" His voice was less nervous than his face, though I was still unconvinced of his innocence.

"You mean to tell me, Haven, that you have absolutely nothing to do with this? That you absolutely are innocent? That the address enclosed in this very letter isn't this very room?" He looked at me with such fire in his eyes, but a fire that was not angry, but completely afraid. I had no doubts in my mind that he was guilty, for anyone who was there could have noticed it. He said nothing. I decided to use the old routine.

"Mr. Haven, I'm going to tell you a little story, and once I am finished, I want you to tell me what you think of it." He looked at me as if I were a madman, but approved his understanding. I continued.

"Now, as is obvious, I didn't somehow magically become what I am today. I didn't wake up one morning and say, 'I'm sick of my old life, and I want to become a contract killer and slaughter people that I have never met in my life.' It happened as more of a, recruiting process, if you will. October 26th of the year 1993 was the day that brought forth the beginning of the only career I have called an importance. The more I think about that day, the more I think about the predicament I am in right at this moment. This issue I am dealing with right now is obviously being used by blunt force that I cannot control by doing anything but what it has told me to do. Just like on the 26th of October, I have to kill or be killed. Now, I know what you are thinking Monsieur Haven. You're thinking that the agency that I currently work for forced me to do what I do. But that's not the case. On the 26th of October, 1993, at 2:26 a.m., I awoke in a room which had in it one light which was flickering relentlessly. I was in a daze and I remembered nothing of before. In front of me were two people in black shirts and white aprons. They were eying me as if I were the criminal that was indeed sitting in an orange suit left of me. His nose was broken and his head was shaved. He screamed when I looked at him, which came as a shock to me. I said nothing, kept my mouth shut, and continued looking around the room. As I searched my environment, the prisoner began screaming something in Arabic. I didn't understand at the time, for English was the only language I spoke. I speak 4 now. I was completely confused, of course, but I kept my head. I looked behind the two apron-wearing men, to see the only site I have ever found beautiful. The little girl was around the age of 8, but showed no sign of fear. In fact, she showed absolutely no sign of any emotion at all. Her eyes were in a blank stare at the floor. She gave off the portrait of a corpse. I was now horrified, but since I had no idea _why _I was, my horror was a double of what it would have been. Finally, one of the men in front of me talked.

'Well, it is apparent that you have absolutely no idea why you are here,' he said, 'but I am going to tell you. You see, five days ago, we picked you up outside of an asylum, naked, and with two bullet holes in your side. We took you here, and tried to revive you from your rather bloody migration-'

'I was in a coma?' I asked.

'Yes, but we knew you would be awake by now.'

'How can you determine the length of a coma?'

'Very easily, but that is none of your concern. The reason why you are here solely because of the gun which is before you.'

I looked down, which I hadn't done until now, and I looked at a gun which had a light brown handle, a chrome barrel, and the title of 'Silver Baller .9 mm.' on the side. I looked at it with a some sort of memory that I could not drag out of the back of my mind, and then I was put through a sensation which I could not describe in words. I turned around, by instinct, and I saw the woman I now work for with a syringe in her hand. It was the first of 2, which she has thrust into me. I writhed in pain in my chair, but my body refused to move. I was paralyzed.

'Oh, I'm sorry, but we can't have you running away, now can we?' The 1st man in the apron began to talk again. I looked at him with face of hate, but he seemed to not notice it.

'What the fuck is this?! Why the hell am I here?'

'That, my friend, is very simple. We picked you up, as I said before, outside of an asylum and took you in. You were in a coma, and we managed to keep you alive until now. We didn't press to keep you alive until we found this gun in your coat pocket. We then knew for certain that you most definitely had skill with weaponry. Now, the only way we can know for sure if you are the person right for us, is if you pick up the gun right now.'

'I don't quite understand-'

'What the hell is there not to understand? Pick up your fucking gun.' At this point I was so much in pain from the crazy poison that Diana stuck in me, and so angry of what was going on around me, that I picked it up obediently without further question.

Now, Mr. Haven, this is where my story becomes immensely and devastatingly confusing for you. I picked up the Silverballer, and a sort of shock traveled through my veins. I felt it surge through my body as if it were death itself. But it was not painful. It was a very strong sensation, but there was no pain involved. I searched the room, and to my horror, and unexplainable confusion, the little 8 year old girl was pointing a gun at me. I was completely and utterly driven out of consciousness for an instant. Everything went blank, and I heard nor felt anything at all. But in an instant, I was awake again. Only my consciousness was not brought about by a syringe, as my paralysis had been, but by a bullet. I expected a bullet to travel through my body, most likely my chest. But no pain overtook me. I looked up to find the Arabic prisoner dead on the floor, and the little girl trembling. She screamed a horrible scream, of excruciating pain, and fell to floor, blood slowly leaking out of her open mouth. It made somewhat since now. The little girl had been made to shoot me, and I was to react with the same action. I was to kill the girl, that, instead of killing the visibly innocent, spared me and killed the visibly guilty instead. She had been brainwashed of course, but somehow she saw beyond the wall that separated her from being a living human. The second man in the apron was turned around and in his hand he held a pistol. I reached for the Silverballer. My reaction was not out of pure will but rather instinct. I shot both of the apron-wearing men in the back, though I had to shoot one twice out of his stubbornness to die. I looked towards where Diana had been before, but she had walked behind me while in the confusion, and she slowly spoke into my ear.

'Congratulations 47. You have passed our test. Not only have you killed the leaders of an enemy agency, but you have passed the test to come into ours as well. I know you don't understand everything so well right now, but soon you will fall asleep from that nasty syringe I had to stick into you earlier, and when you wake up, you will be explained everything. You had a choice today 47. The little girl you see helped you with that choice. If you hadn't have killed those wretched men, they would have killed you. Magnificent job today, 47, and good night.' She slowly walked out of the room through a door opposite the direction of my vision. I tried to move, but my legs were still paralyzed. I slowly drifted off to sleep." After I finished my little story, Haven looked at me with a since of acknowledgement, but still pure horror.

"Your story, Mr. 47, is, well, _charming_. But what exactly does it have to do with everything right now?"

"It has to do with the fact, that it may look like I am being forced to kill everyone inside of this opera, but there may be another way."

"What would that be, Mr. 47?"

"By simply killing you." Before he could say anything, I had already Shoved my Silverballer into his coat, and pulled the trigger twice. His eyes rolled into his head, and he began to open his mouth to say words that never came out. I took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket which I had seen him use before at the mission acquirement and quickly wiped his mouth with it. I bent his head backwards to make out an effect of mere sleep, and I quickly got up and walked out of an entrance that led into the balcony that was opposite the one I had entered before. I then remembered about Haven's guest, but their meeting would have to be canceled. I walked out of the door as casually as the cold Roman air had accepted me in.


End file.
